


Passing Lights

by kaydeefalls



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-27
Updated: 2002-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:52:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/pseuds/kaydeefalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The streetlamps keep flashing by, harsh circles of light leaving tracks across your vision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passing Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Improv fic for ContreLaMontre. At least two scenes wherein light plays an important role. 45 - 90 minute time limit. 88 minutes, go me!

"I want late afternoon light for this shot," Peter tells you, all his hobbits gathered together in the cornfield and nodding solemnly because this means that yes, you have to get this shot right and you've got limited time in which to accomplish it. Peter's voice isn't particularly deep or booming, but somehow his announcement is reminiscent of God on the first day or whatever, saying _let there be light!_ That's kind of how you imagine Peter is saying it. _I want late afternoon light!_ And all his minions scurry to obey.

Dom and Billy exchange looks. They've already got small mountains of oversized vegetables at their feet, and if you squint you can just see their minds whirring. This new mandate cuts into their practical-joke-playing time. They might actually have to save the carrot-inspired sex jokes for after the shoot, God forbid.

"Besides," Peter continues, "the sooner we wrap, the sooner you can all go celebrate Elijah's birthday properly."

Which inspires a round of hearty cheering, and the other three hobbits basically tackle you. It's a hobbit pile of the first degree, and you're trapped underneath it. A bit of that infamous late afternoon light filters through the gap between Sean and Billy, and you reach for it like a drowning man might reach for a bit of driftwood. Or something. Who knew turning nineteen would be this fraught with excitement?

You try to sound as grateful and friendly and loving as possible. "Get OFF!" They all do, laughing. Except Dom, who gives you an extra special tight squeeze before going, just to make sure you really can't breathe.

This ought to qualify as attempted murder, and you turn to Peter to voice your complaint. But the wonderful late afternoon sun has chosen just exactly that angle to aim directly for your eyes, and all you can see of Peter is a vague dark outline in a sea of gold. He really should be outraged at the near hobbiticide of his Frodo, but his outline just looks vaguely amused. "If you boys are ready...?"

"We are," Dom says cheerfully. You suppress a sudden, inexplicable urge to strangle him.

Remarkably enough, the shoot is finished in only a few takes. Even Peter looks impressed. Who knew the lure of extensive amounts of alcohol and partying could be so strong? Well, okay, maybe you're not all that surprised.

Because you've more or less almost forgiven Peter for not interfering with the attempted Frodocide earlier, you give him the location of tonight's party. Some club type place in Hamilton that Orli was really excited about. Whatever, anything's worth a shot.

"Drinks are on Elijah!" Dom proclaims. Of course, of course. Never mind that you're not even legally old enough to drink back home, you're still the birthday boy and that entails paying for every last shot of alcohol. Well, Orli had to do it on his birthday, and Dom before him, so it's not worth arguing over. Except that Dom somehow decided that his announcement should be followed by jumping on you, again.

He's grinning like a maniac, but that's just business as usual with Dom. That's not what makes your breath catch for a second. It's just that you don't remember ever seeing Dom glow before. Like, he's literally glowing. As if God has come down from the heavens, and says _let there be late afternoon light, and let it shine around Dom as if he has some kind of halo!_ And then God adds hastily, _but this is not in any way implying that Dom is now or ever will be an angel, because I don't even want to imagine the sort of shit he'd get up to here in heaven_. And then the angel Gabriel or Saint Peter or someone chews God out for his language, and that's about as long as it takes for your world to go back to normal. Because by now Dom's gone, and Billy's taken his place, which is actually quite normal because Billy will jump anything that breathes (except Christopher Lee, who frightens him, and sometimes Dom, because as Billy likes to say, you never know with Dom. He might just jump you back).

You need to get back to the makeup trailer. Between the costumes and the late afternoon light and the glowing, you're starting to lose your grip on reality. If you woke up tomorrow and found yourself in Middle Earth, would you be able to tell the difference?

*

"I'm not that drunk, you know," you tell him.

Dom smirks, not taking his eyes off the road. "Then why did Sean tell me to drive you home?"

You shrug. "I was just having a little trouble standing. And walking. And such. But when I'm sitting down, I'm not drunk. Like now. I don't feel very drunk now." Just dizzy as fuck, you don't add. The streetlamps keep flashing by, harsh circles of light leaving tracks across your vision when you glance out the car window. Glowing spots in the night. Like the universe, maybe, except not. Your eyes try to focus on them and fail. Hence the dizziness. Also, you might just be the teensiest bit drunk, but you're sure as hell not going to admit it.

The streetlamps don't bother you as much when you're not staring out the window, so you look at Dom instead. "Whatever you say, Lij. How'd you like the club? Not bad for an Orli rec, that's for sure."

"I bet you're more drunk than I am." No changing the subject. It's your birthday, you get to dictate the direction of this conversation. Something like that.

"Quite possibly," Dom says agreeably. He glances over at you. A passing streetlamp illuminates his face for a moment. He's pale in the sudden light, and his eyes are more gray than blue. You're not sure why you notice this in the brief seconds before darkness returns. Strange, what the eye is drawn to. "How old are you now, Elijah?"

You raise an eyebrow at him, even though he probably can't see you through the shadows. But just in case a streetlamp chooses to light up your face at that very second, the look of vague disdain is ready and waiting. "Nineteen. You really should know that."

"What's legal drinking age in the States?"

"Twenty-one."

A triumphant grin, light passing over his face just long enough to make it out, and then he's paying attention to his driving again. "See, you definitely can't drive drunk yet. I can."

The logic of his statement is compelling, even though you're not sure it makes sense.

"Besides, I feel safer with me driving you than with you driving you," he continues.

"What difference does it make, if we're both drunk?"

You suddenly, passionately hate the night and the streetlamps for contriving to give you only brief flashes of his face. You feel like you're missing something. "Because I know I wouldn't get you killed or anything, drunk or sober," Dom says, not looking at you. "Forget it."

*

Your trailer is very dark. Dark, and shockingly empty-feeling, because you've just rented a real house for yourself but haven't quite moved out yet, so what few things you still have here are mostly in boxes now.

"Wow, Lij, I've never seen your place this tidy," Dom jokes. He was just supposed to drive you home, but somehow he wound up following you inside. Probably in search of more beer.

You try to walk over to the lamp (which used to be next to the door but in the process of packing ended up all the way across the room) and trip over about twelve boxes. "Fuck you," you growl cheerfully, and aren't sure whether you're addressing Dom or the boxes or both.

He might be smirking at you through the darkness. "Anytime, love." His voice drips sarcasm, but in a friendly way.

It's easier to reach the windows than the lamp, so you clamber over your couch-turned-bed (because everything in your bedroom has already made the journey to the new house, although you can't remember why you decided to send those over first) and manage to find the rope thing that controls the venetian blinds. Moonlight shines through, leaving blue-silver stripes across the couch and floor and you and Dom.

Now his eyes really look gray, you think dimly. Silver-gray. Hey, where's he going?

He stops at the door, turns to grin at you. "Happy birthday, Lij."

"Wait," you say without thinking, and you're really not drunk anymore so you can't even blame it on the alcohol. You're not even sure why you want him to stay, anyway, except that he really looks good in the silver-striped moonlight. Even better than streetlamp-flashes Dom and late-afternoon-light-glowing Dom.

He leans against the doorframe. "What's up?"

You try not to stare at him. "Nothing. Never mind. See you tomorrow." He gives you a quizzical look, but you clamp your mouth shut. And maybe miss your chance, if you ever had one.

*

The early morning sunlight blasts through the venetian blinds, like guided missiles aimed at your eyes. Ugh. You know there's a reason you usually shut the blinds before going to bed. This is a horrid way to wake up, especially on one of your rare days off.

Still too exhausted -- and, hey, hungover, ow -- to move towards the windows, you remember that your birthday was yesterday. Nineteen. Not very old, really. Still younger than everyone else in the cast. But it's strange to think that by the time you're twenty, filming will have finished. Everything will be over in less than a year. It's a sobering thought.

Running out of time, then. And next time you think you have a chance, you're going to take it. Call it a birthday resolution. Because you really hate the way that sunlight leaves golden stripes across your empty bed.


End file.
